


Rules and Exceptions

by earlybloomingparentheses



Series: Facts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Control Issues, Falling In Love, M/M, Questionable Use of CCTV, Questionable Use of Pubs, Questionable Use of Science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mycroft wants to maintain control and Greg wants to lose it; Sherlock thinks he's too extraordinary for sentiment and John thinks he's not extraordinary enough; and the Holmes brothers need a little help figuring things out. Angst, sex, and fluff, more or less in equal parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft, Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for mentions of past self-harm, past drug addiction, and maybe some CCTV-related stalking on Mycroft's part.

It was twenty-six minutes past midnight and Mycroft had just finished pulling the world back from the brink of nuclear disaster. Again. He dismissed his assistant and locked the door of his office, sinking back into the leather chair—sinking in a slow and dignified way, though; Mycroft refused to crash, as many of his counterparts did after such harrowing events, returning to their expensive empty townhouses to binge on sleep and bad television. Mycroft might be exhausted, but he was still in control of himself. He was always in control of himself. 

He steepled his fingers, unconsciously mirroring his younger brother (though if anyone had pointed out the resemblance, Mycroft would have personally had them shot. Or at least subjected to a rigorous audit). He went through his post-crisis mental routine: ensure that all loose ends were tied up (it wouldn’t do to leave some minor country still in the dark, uncertain as to whether or not they should start clearing out their Cold War-era bunkers—Lichtenstein had not been happy about the incident back in 2010); see to it that his staff went home (the chance of physical collapse or mental breakdown was significant and about evenly matched if they didn’t); make sure Sherlock had not gotten up to any mischief in the interval (he’d already checked the CCTV footage outside Baker Street and noted that the lights of 221B were blazing and a tall figure was striding back and forth at the window); and, lastly, calculate precisely what his work tonight had earned him. 

He leaned back in his smooth chair, contemplating this latter question. He had prevented nuclear war, which was high on his list of merit-worthy accomplishments, and his handling of the unexpectedly neurotic North Korean diplomat had been faultless. Mycroft allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. A second later, though, his brow creased, deepening the lines already embedded there; he was not being rigorous enough with himself. There had been that near miss with the coffee—cream instead of milk, Mycroft shuddered to remember, and though it was hardly his job to provide the beverages he ought to have been keeping a closer eye on that new aide. It wouldn’t do for several hundred thousand lives to end simply because the Russian ambassador was sensitive about his weight.           

So subtracting points for that mishap, that took Mycroft to—yes, fifteen and a half minutes. Plus a small glass of Scotch. 

Mycroft let out a long, contented sigh and drew the stopper from the crystal bottle, pouring the amber liquid into the gleaming Scotch glass. Then he hit a succession of buttons on the keyboard in front of him, and on the top-of-the-line, highest-possible-resolution screen there appeared a grainy black-and-white image of the side entrance to New Scotland Yard. Mycroft sipped the smoky alcohol and sank even deeper into his chair, glancing at his watch: half-past midnight. Any second now…ah, yes. The door of the police building opened, and a man stepped out. His back was hunched with weariness, his hands in his pockets, but after a moment he squared his broad shoulders and began to trudge down the street. As Mycroft watched him, switching CCTV cameras when he moved out of range, his own eyes began to soften; he looked, suddenly, years younger.           

Mycroft allowed himself very few pleasures. He had known from an absurdly early age that if he were to rise to the professional heights he desired he must do so unencumbered by the detritus that filled most people’s lives. Sentimental attachments were strictly forbidden; Sherlock alone had any sort of personal claim on him and that only because he was useful to Mycroft in the best of times and dangerous in the worst. Sex was out, too, and not just because Mycroft preferred to remain in the closet—he had seen too many heads clouded by lust or by sentiment, too many careers brought down by lurid scandal, and, frankly, too many dead-eyed escorts at high-end functions to find paid anonymous sex appealing. He had no interest in expensive cars or clothes or properties for their own sake; he owned and wore the best solely to make the necessary impression on those around him.           

And yet Mycroft did not quite have the temperament of an ascetic. He had come to admit, however reluctantly, that he found these private moments in his office, after the resolution of some crisis that made thriller novels seem tame, utterly necessary to his continued sanity. The rub of the leather chair against his tired body, the low lights, the burn of the Scotch at the back of his throat…and the opportunity to indulge in his one vice. In his earliest years this had been sweets: Mycroft would sit alone and consume a slice of black forest cake or Victoria sponge (the size of the pastry stringently measured against his success during the crisis), letting the sugar fizz against his teeth, each swallow sinfully delicious. Then he had grown older, and his body had grown flabbier, which was entirely unacceptable if he did not wish to be aged out of his position, and he had had to cut himself off from that one joy—even now, he still considered it the hardest thing he had ever done. 

He had then gone through what he now recognized as a bad period; he had discovered that there was a certain pleasure to be found in quietly testing the limits of his body’s endurance—or, to put it bluntly, in self-inflicted pain. When precisely measured and calmly executed, the act of digging his smooth manicured fingernails into the skin of his upper arm or his inner thigh provided a sharp kind of release: a controlled loss of control. The marks would linger on his skin in the exact same way the taste of buttercream had lingered in the back of his throat, a heady secret as he went about his business. Eventually he began to use unbent paperclips instead of fingernails, the metal making long red scratches on his pale skin; looking back, Mycroft grew quite cold to think of how close he’d come to scissors and razor blades and how blindly he’d been teetering on the edge of the dark abyss he’d been trying so assiduously to avoid. 

That had all changed—what, it must have been nearly six years ago now, Mycroft marveled to think; six years since he had begun instead to memorize the life of Gregory Lestrade. 

Sherlock had been continually high at the time, strung out on heroin or cocaine, a circumstance Mycroft blamed himself for being unable to prevent. It was always a battle of wills where his brother was concerned, and he was forced to work almost entirely behind the scenes due to Sherlock’s immature conviction that they were “arch-enemies.” In this particular instance, Sherlock ended up in a cell overnight, and by morning had solved three current cases merely by observing the comings and goings in the police station—and had also managed to antagonize every officer there. The up-and-coming Lestrade was the only one who didn’t want him as far away as humanly possible when he was released; in fact, he promised Sherlock he’d let him help on a particularly tricky locked-room triple murder if the young addict remained clean. As Sherlock sweated and shook, Lestrade went searching for Sherlock’s family. The Holmes parents were dead, further relations dispersed and irrelevant—which left Mycroft. 

Who, of course, was keeping extremely close tabs on the situation. He had rehab all lined up if Sherlock could be manipulated into going; he’d had his associates pay all the drug dealers in a fifteen-mile radius to stop selling to his brother. But if he showed his face, he knew Sherlock would bolt. So he was staying prudently behind the scenes.           

The soon-to-be D.I. was not to know this, naturally, and Mycroft watched with growing interest as Lestrade continued to throw himself against the dead ends Mycroft erected to discourage his search. No sooner would he hang up the phone on a maddeningly polite and unhelpful government aide than he would jump down yet another bureaucratic rabbit hole—kicking and screaming the whole way, yes, but stubborn as a mule. It was grudging respect, more than anything, that made Mycroft finally decide to send a sleek black car to fetch Lestrade and let the policeman get his way.           

Lestrade obviously had no idea who Mycroft really was. He shouted a barrage of abuse at the man who held Britain’s future in the palm of his hand, during which time Mycroft learned a number of new curse words and got the impression that the detective thought he was some sort of government middleman with a chip on his shoulder. At the end of it all, Lestrade took a long breath, lowered his voice, and looked Mycroft dead in the eye.           

“I know he’s a git most of the time. But your brother’s a genius. And if you’re not going to help him, then I will.”           

He’d stridden from the room, not even giving Mycroft time to open his mouth and make the offer he’d had waiting (the same one he’d try with John Watson years later). It turned out Mycroft hadn’t needed to; Lestrade was as good as his word. He gave Sherlock the chance to help with cases if he got clean—a simple solution, one which took advantage of their mutual stubbornness, and one which, to Mycroft’s amazement, worked like a charm.           

The night after their first meeting, Mycroft had sat alone in his leather chair and forgotten to unbend a paper clip. He was too busy remembering the shine of the fluorescent lights on the already-graying hair of the detective, the thickening of his accent as his anger at Mycroft grew. It had been so long since anyone had shouted at Mycroft like that, if they ever had; somehow, absurdly, the memory of it made Mycroft chuckle.           

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew he was attracted to the man. But Mycroft’s self-control was impeccable, and it wasn’t as if he planned to make a habit of meeting Lestrade in person. So he knew there was no harm in turning on his monitor, in the still emptiness of his office, and flipping through the CCTV channels until he found the detective, leaning against a desk in the front office of Scotland Yard and chatting with the receptionist, a cup of coffee in his large firm hand. There was no harm in noting the slight upward arch of his eyebrows, the looseness of his long arms, the bags already developing below his eyes. And there was no harm in the slow progression of Mycroft’s interest from occasional idle surveillance to the one great pleasure he allowed himself, his carefully monitored reward for a job well done.           

Years passed, and the red marks on Mycroft’s arms faded. He met Gregory Lestrade twice more in person—once after John Watson moved in, as part of an insanely comprehensive background check on the doctor (Lestrade had been absurdly polite, obviously having learned a little more about who Mycroft was by then), and once after the business with Moriarty and the swimming pool, at which time they’d both been too harried and too worried to bother with politics. But despite the rarity of these meetings, Mycroft knew the inspector intimately, knew him from his rationed time with CCTV, from Lestrade’s police files, from the careful monitoring done on anyone in regular contact with Sherlock. He knew how he took his coffee, what it meant when he opted for the long route to work, his preferences in sandwiches, types of homicides, and women’s hairstyles, his struggle (always shockingly successful) to remain honest in the midst of corruption, and why exactly he and his wife were separating. Mycroft knew him as well as he knew himself—maybe even better. After all, there was less to know about Mycroft: he didn’t have such things as favorite sandwiches, and he never varied his route to work. 

Now, as the clock ticked down the minutes to twelve forty-five and a half, and Mycroft’s time with the inspector wound down, he couldn’t help but note that Lestrade was nearly home—couldn’t help but hurry him on so that he would reach his door before Mycroft had to switch off his screen. But as Lestrade turned onto his street, a wind blew the hat from his head, and he doubled back after it, and Mycroft’s time ran out.           

Mycroft’s finger hovered over the keyboard. The figure of the inspector looked so small on the screen, so vulnerable in the solitariness of its black-and-white surroundings. Anything could happen in twenty seconds—London was dangerous; who knew what might be lurking in the shadows?  

So Mycroft held his finger steady, and let his time run long, and saw the detective home. 


	2. Sherlock, In the Dark

Sherlock was irritated. He was usually irritated—people were just so _boring_ —but this was worse than normal. Much worse. Bringing in Lestrade on a private case: fine, yes, all right, if Scotland Yard had to be involved it might as well be him. He was slightly less of an idiot than everybody else there. That call hadn’t been too terrible to make—anyway, he’d had John do the actual calling. And it was admittedly gratifying to see how fast the gray-haired D.I. had come running. He’d been cranky since he arrived, muttering something about not getting home till quarter to one the night before, but that hadn’t stopped him from inspecting the clever shrinking room with his usual doglike thoroughness.           

No, it had been the other call that raised the bile in the back of Sherlock’s throat, the call he’d had to make himself. He’d done it in secret, fast and mercilessly, like forcing himself to swallow a bitter liquid. He hated giving in like that—how stupid, how dull it had been—but this deathtrap of a room was far too cunning for those incompetent counterfeiters to have thought up. It stank of Moriarty. And while Sherlock wanted very much to have the wicked genius all to himself—god, how he wanted it—Moriarty had strapped John with Semtex and nearly blown him to bits and Sherlock could not begin to express how _not good_ that was.           

So he had gritted his teeth and called his brother.

Sherlock knew Mycroft would arrive in a sleek black unmarked car, and he knew when the older man emerged he would be equally sleek, not a hair out of place; he knew exactly the expression Mycroft would have on his face, the one he reserved for chagrined diplomats and needy dignitaries and apologetic aides and his younger brother: _I knew you’d come round to doing things my way eventually._ Sherlock also knew precisely how hard he would have to work to suppress the outburst of rage at seeing that particular look on his brother’s face again after all these years.

What Sherlock did not know was that after the car and the entrance and the smug smile, Mycroft’s eyes would slide to the left of Sherlock’s head, catching sight of someone who stood behind him, and that his face would grow slack with shock and his hand would reach up to smooth his perfectly smooth hair and his pupils would dilate ever so slightly. And Sherlock certainly did not know that when he turned to see who had caused this extraordinary display, his eyes would land, as Mycroft’s had, on the broad back of D.I. Lestrade.

Sherlock turned back to his brother, feeling as though a thunderclap had struck him squarely between the ears. Dear god, Mycroft was in _love_. The very thought was _appalling_ , it gave Sherlock cold shivers, like a clammy hand on the back of his neck. _Holmeses don’t fall in love_ , he thought viciously. Mycroft’s gaze met Sherlock’s and for the first time in Sherlock’s memory, he saw panic in Mycroft’s eyes.           

_Oh, no, brother dear,_ Sherlock said silently, knowing Mycroft could read his thoughts, _you’re the one who’s made a mistake now._

Mycroft merely looked at him, wide-eyed and imploring, and Sherlock thought of all the times he’d looked at his brother in the exact same way— _No, Mycroft, don’t tell Mummy I snuck off to London; don’t show the nanny my skeleton collection or she’ll take it away again; don’t confiscate my chemicals; don’t make me go to school; don’t, don’t, please_ _don’t._ Not once had Mycroft relented, and Sherlock certainly was not going to give up this chance to get him back.           

“Oh, Lestrade!” Sherlock called, not taking his gaze away from his older brother.           

_Please,_ Mycroft begged, brown eyes eloquent with supplication.           

_Why on earth would I keep your secret for you?_ Sherlock asked him, cruel and triumphant even in his silence. _What possible reason could you give me?_

Mycroft hesitated, and then looked at John.           

It was a quick glance—almost imperceptible—and when Mycroft turned back his face was wiped free of all emotion. Sherlock’s eyes travelled slower, lingering on the doctor as he bent over the steel skeleton of the room and made a series of spectacularly incorrect deductions. Sherlock would have to correct them all eventually; John would be peeved but impressed. Belatedly, Sherlock realized that the thought of it was making him smile.           

He turned back to Mycroft, absolutely, utterly _furious_. Storm clouds and tidal waves gathered in his eyes; he would have struck him dead with a look if he could have. How _dare_ he, how dare he equate the two of them, how dare he suggest such a thing, how dare he see something—believe he could see something—that Sherlock had not, it was ludicrous, maddening, infuriating…           

“Yeah, what is it now, Sherlock—oh. Mr. Holmes. Er, hi.”           

Both brothers turned to face the detective inspector, who stood with his arms crossed and his weight on one foot, clearly unsure whether to be irritated or deferential.           

“What do you want?” Sherlock snapped.           

Lestrade’s expression tipped dangerously towards irritated. “You called me over.”           

There was a silence. Sherlock could feel Mycroft holding his breath.           

“Work faster,” Sherlock said, looking daggers at Lestrade. “You’re slowing everything down just by existing.”           

“You brought me here!” Lestrade threw up his hands and shot a despairing glance Mycroft’s way. Sherlock saw his brother freeze—not his classic Iceman freeze, the cold stare that stopped foreign dignitaries in their tracks, but an absolutely inane I-don’t-know-what-to-say-right-now freeze. A look which ordinary, stupid people had on their faces all the time.           

Mycroft attempted a commiserating smile before Lestrade went back to work; in Sherlock’s opinion, it made him appear as if he belonged in an institution. In the corner, John was shaking his head at Sherlock— _not good_ —and that, _that_ was far more interesting than whatever Mycroft was doing with his face now; his brother was offering him a thank-you look, in fact, but Sherlock went to join John, pretending not to see. 

 

Back at 221B, Sherlock was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. Mycroft in love was, so far, at least a four-patch problem. _Stupid, dull, ordinary_ , Sherlock thought fiercely. Yes, Mycroft frequently did boring things (all the queen-and-country business, the James Bond espionage, the caring about appearances and what people thought), but Mycroft himself was never boring. He was a Holmes brother. Holmes brothers were geniuses. They knew the body was transport; they knew the danger of sentiment. Holmes brothers did not fall in love.      

And for Mycroft to suggest that Sherlock—what, exactly?—felt the same way about John? It was preposterous. John was simply— _John_. There was nothing irrational or sentimental in Sherlock’s behavior toward him. Moriarty had nearly killed him, so Moriarty must be vanquished: that was a fact. John’s presence at Baker Street was necessary for Sherlock’s continued existence: another fact. Just simple, empirical facts.           

And yet earlier that day, when Mycroft had looked at John, Sherlock had found the words dying in his throat.           

Sherlock tilted his head away from the ceiling. Ah, good, John was still there, sitting in the armchair and reading the paper—hair damp, must have showered, Sherlock had missed that somehow. Never mind. Sherlock would never tell John this, of course, but he’d begun to use the doctor as a sort of barometer for normal people: he’d test things on John first to gauge the reaction he’d get from the general population. John was strange that way; he wasn’t normal himself—he’d shot that cabbie for Sherlock the very first day, Sherlock had known (another fact) that John wasn’t normal then—but he almost always behaved like normal people did, about body parts in the fridge and etiquette for dates and regular meals. Surely John would be the proper person to consult on Mycroft’s sudden inexplicable foray into the ordinary.           

“Mycroft’s in love with Lestrade,” Sherlock said, not bothering with preamble.           

John looked as though he’d have spit out his tea if he’d had any in his mouth. “Sorry, _what?_ ”           

“I don’t repeat myself, John, it’s boring,” Sherlock replied impatiently, watching John out of the corner of his eye.           

“Of course not,” John replied with automatic sarcasm, then let out a huff of breath. “Are you sure? Wait, no, of course you are, you’re Sherlock Holmes. I know.”           

Sherlock allowed his ruffled feathers to settle, waiting.           

“God. That’s.” He blew air out of his mouth again. “Poor bugger.”           

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked incredulously. 

John snorted. “Lestrade. Can you imagine? Mycroft’s probably been watching him on CCTV. Or having him secretly followed. Jesus. And the dates—oh, god, Mycroft pulling up in that big black car— _Good evening, Gregory, sorry I have to blindfold you but the location of our date is classified_.” 

Sherlock always appreciated humor at Mycroft’s expense, but John’s response was irritatingly off-target. “Yes, yes, it’s appalling, but the question obviously is, how _could_ he?” 

John tilted his head. “Sorry?”           

“Mycroft. Fall in love. How could he do something so dull, so—so _ordinary_?” John was an expert on Holmeses; John ought to understand. “Holmeses don’t fall in love, John, keep up.”           

John blinked. “Ah,” he said, his voice suddenly quite flat. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see he had gone still, and there was an expression on his face—a non-expression, more like—that Sherlock had never seen there before. It was utterly fascinating. Sherlock swung himself upright to get a better view. 

“No, no of course they don’t,” John said. He wasn’t looking at Sherlock anymore. He picked up his newspaper, pretending to read, but Sherlock could see that his eyes weren’t moving. After a moment, he put it down again, rubbing his palm against the knee of his trousers. “And god forbid Mycroft do anything ordinary. God forbid he make an exception for once in his life.”           

“Holmeses don’t make exceptions; we _are_ exceptions,” Sherlock snapped. Was that what this was about? John could get so tetchy about Sherlock refusing to pretend to be normal, to observe social niceties and make friends and give in to _sentiment_. Well, Sherlock wouldn’t do it; he wouldn’t slip up like his brother had. Sherlock was extraordinary.           

John was getting up now, folding his paper and setting it on the armchair, his face still a blank mask. Sherlock watched him walk to the door, irritated and puzzled; John paused for a second, as if to say something, then let out a puff of breath and walked out of the room.           

That had _not_ gone as Sherlock had expected.           

There was a gnawing feeling in Sherlock’s stomach—not huger, he’d actually eaten today; well, toast, at least—and he growled irritably, swinging himself back onto the sofa and staring at the ceiling. John was so irrational. It was infuriating. Sherlock slapped another patch on his arm; maybe that would stop the restlessness that was suddenly making him twitch.           

From John’s bedroom, there came a sudden muffled burst of laughter.           

Sherlock sat up straight, heart pounding.     

John kept laughing, and Sherlock listened through the walls, utterly in the dark.


	3. John, at a Pub

John sat on his bed and laughed until tears filled his eyes.

Of course. Of _course_ it would turn out this way.

Sherlock and Mycroft, the bloody Holmes brothers, too good for feelings, too brilliant to act like everyone else. And of course when one of them slipped up—when one of them behaved like a human being for once—it had to be Mycroft. The one John found irredeemably irritating. The one John would be happy never to see again.

The one John wasn’t in love with.

Bloody hell, how had it come to this? Sherlock had been right about one thing: he was an exception. To begin with, he was a man, and John didn’t fall in love with men—except for Sherlock. John didn’t pine after people either, didn’t have the patience for unrequited affection—except for Sherlock. And he didn’t put up with people who trampled all over him, called him an idiot, disregarded his needs and desires and feelings as if he were the equivalent of the skull on the mantelpiece. Except, of course, for Sherlock.

He picked up his phone. He needed to get out of here for a change, see someone else. Someone who thought normal was a good thing. What was it, Friday night? Perfect. John scrolled through his contacts and hit “dial.”

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mike. It’s John.”

“John?” The voice on the other end sounded doubtful.

“John Watson.” He fidgeted guiltily. Surely it hadn’t been that long?

“No, yeah, I know, your name shows up on the…it’s just been a long time, mate!”

John winced. Mike Stanford left voicemails every now and again, asking to meet up, and John never remembered to respond—things got away from him when he was busy running after Sherlock. “I know. Sorry. Listen, I was just wondering if you wanted to go down to the pub tonight. Maybe watch the match?”

Mike sounded as though he was gleefully rubbing his hands together. “I can do you one better.”

“Oh, yeah?” John felt suddenly wary.

“Some of the boys from uni are meeting up at Carter’s tonight. Gareth, Kareem, Will, Joe…we’d love to have you along!”

John’s mind stalled for a moment. He hadn’t seen most of his med school classmates since before Afghanistan—truth be told, since long before that. The thought of explaining his current situation to them was less than appealing (what would he say—“I’m in love with my genius flatmate who thinks sentiment is for mere mortals, and oh by the way, he’s a consulting detective, and, whoops, a man?”), but then again, he didn’t have to talk about Sherlock. And what could be more ordinary than an evening at the pub with old friends?

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great, Mike.”

“Brilliant! We’re meeting at seven-thirty. Bit early, but, you know, babysitters and such. See you then?”

“Yep. Cheers, mate.”

“Cheers!”

John hung up. He stood and opened his closet door. Tonight, he wouldn’t need good running shoes, thermal layers, or a deep pocket in which to hide his gun. Just comfortable old jeans and a faded T-shirt. He smiled. Being ordinary had its perks.

 

John had to look twice to find his friends when he entered the pub. Bloody hell, when had everyone gotten so old? Mike was there, portly and eager; Gareth and Joe both wore suits—they’d obviously come straight from work—and Kareem and Will sported undeniably middle-aged-man clothes. John took in the graying hair and the wrinkles, wondering if he looked like that too.

“John!” Mike waved him over. Feeling a little out of place, John pulled up a chair and ordered a beer as Will clapped him on the shoulder and the others, to John’s dismay, took turns shaking his hand. Jesus, they really had grown up, hadn’t they?

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Gareth said, grinning. “How’ve you been?”

“Ah, well. You know,” John said evasively. “You?”

“Not bad, not bad. Better than Joe, at any rate—he was just saying when you came in, Lulu’s got colic.”

John raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was an appropriately sympathetic expression. Lulu, he assumed, was Joe’s daughter, though the last he remembered, Joe had been dating two girls at once and insisting he was never getting married.

“I remember when Tommy had it,” Will chipped in. “The worst part’s the not sleeping. God, they just cry and cry, don’t they?”

Joe nodded. “Karen’s losing her mind. Pity none of us are in pediatrics, eh?” There was a smattering of laughter. “But my mother-in-law suggested trying switching to soymilk. Karen was keen on breastfeeding, but at this point…”

The conversation veered swiftly toward the merits of formula verses breastfeeding and the legitimacy of childcare advice given by mother-in-laws, and John listened with growing horror. Was this what people his age _talked_ about? Everybody at the table had kids, it seemed, except for him and Mike, and John hadn’t failed to notice that Mike kept excusing himself for texting somebody named Carol. John tried to remember whether or not Carol was that stringy-haired woman Mike had been dating a few years back; he couldn’t.

“So what’s been going on with you, John?” Kareem asked, catching him off-guard. John had been zoning out since somebody had used the phrase “urban composting” a quarter of an hour back.

“Ah. Well. I, uh, work at a clinic these days.” John didn’t add that it was on a strictly on-call basis, as Sarah had finagled a highly personalized schedule that let him run around after Sherlock without having to call off work all the time. “Been a bit hectic recently—flu season, you know.” He chanced a weary smile; they were doctors, after all, and hopefully this was a subject they could all still share.

“A clinic?” Gareth raised his eyebrows skeptically. “You?”

John blinked, feeling the back of his neck grow warm. “Yeah, why not?”

Gareth shrugged. “Just—you know, kids with colds and all that. Grandmas with chest pains. Didn’t think it was your kind of thing.”

John’s skin prickled. Gareth had always been something of an elitist, he remembered now. _Probably drives some slick car and has an in-ground swimming pool_ , he thought savagely, conveniently ignoring the fact that Gareth was right about “his kind of thing”; _they’ve probably all got pools, as a matter of fact, the posh gits…_

“Well, but John doesn’t just work at a clinic,” Mike cut in, smilingly oblivious to John’s sudden flare-up of temper. “He lives with Sherlock Holmes!”

Four heads swiveled to face him, suddenly curious. John cursed Mike Stamford with every fiber of his being.

“Who’s that?” Will asked.

“Don’t you know?” Mike leaned in eagerly. “The consulting detective! He solved that string of serial suicides last year…don’t you read John’s blog?”

“His _blog_?” Gareth asked, looking definitely amused. John wished he could sink into the floor.

“Oh, it’s brilliant! He writes up all the cases they solve, you should take a look, ‘The Aluminum Crutch’ is my personal favorite. Haven’t updated in awhile, though, have you?” Mike shot John an avid look. “Thought maybe you two had had a bit of a domestic?”

John nearly spat out his beer at the looks on the other men’s faces. “We’re not—he isn’t…it isn’t like that,” he finished lamely.

“Hang on,” Kareem said, shaking his head. “So you—you solve crimes? With this—detective?” He looked bemused, as if he’d just been told that John occasionally strapped antlers onto his head and pranced through the forest, pretending to be a deer. The others, save Mike, weren’t far behind.

“That’s…about the size of it, yep,” John said, downing his beer and motioning the waitress to get him another, hoping that before it came the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Or better yet, swallow Sherlock Holmes whole.

He pointed at the TV in the corner. “Oh look, football,” he said. “What a match, eh?”

 

The group broke up ludicrously early amidst talk of driving babysitters home and picking up the kids from the ex-wife’s and bedtime pudding with Carol. John watched them go, one hundred percent solid in his conviction that he was not nearly drunk enough yet.

Jesus, if that was what ordinary people his age were like, no wonder he preferred nights in, bullying Sherlock into eating his takeaway and listening to the detective predict the endings of _Inspector Lewis_. Even if the sight of Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, dark hair in disarray and robe askew, sent shivers of unfulfilled longing up John’s spine.

John scowled. He was not going to think about Sherlock tonight. He was going to sit at the pub, for god’s sake, and drink more beers, and shout at the telly like an ordinary bloke on a Friday night. But ordinary blokes had friends, he thought mournfully, the buzz of the alcohol turning him melancholy, friends who did more than talk about spit-up and pension plans…He scrolled through his phone again, sure that there had to be someone he could call, someone who wouldn’t ask stupid questions about the clinic or look like he had three eyes if the subject of his blog or his flatmate arose.

As far as he could tell, he had one choice. He looked at the name, snorting at the irony of it. _Oh, what the hell_ , he thought, and rang Greg Lestrade.


	4. Greg, at a Pub with John

Greg’s flat was dark and crammed with half-unpacked boxes. He fumbled for the light switch as his mobile rang, cursing when he remembered he still hadn’t bothered to put bulbs in the overhead sockets. He stubbed his toe on his dresser—what the hell was it doing in the middle of the floor?—and managed to pick up the phone before it went to voicemail.           

“Hey, Greg, it’s John. John Watson.”           

Greg snorted. “I know who you are,” he said, finding the floor lamp beside a couple plastic bins and yanking the chain. The naked lightbulb (incredibly, Jess had taken the lampshade from right off the stand when he moved out) cast unflattering shadows across the room. “You’re the one with the mad consulting detective for a flatmate. What’s he done now? Found another shrinking room he wants to yell at me for looking at too slowly?”           

John’s laugh sounded oddly forced. “No, no. He hasn’t done anything, actually.”

Greg knew things were bad when the news that he wouldn’t have to go chasing around Sherlock Holmes at nine o’clock on a Friday night caused him a brief pang of disappointment. “No? What’s up, then?”           

“Actually, I wondered if you wanted to go for a pint.”           

_God bless John Watson_ , thought Greg fervently. He gave his disaster of a flat the evil eye as he slung his coat back around his shoulders.           

“You have no idea how brilliant that sounds,” he said.           

“Actually,” John replied, his voice wry, “I bet I do.”

 

The pub was loud and crowded and absolutely bloody perfect. A crowd had gathered around the telly, groaning and cheering in unison at the football match. John had snagged a table in the corner; he already had a half-empty glass of beer in front of him. Greg approved.           

“Christ, I need one of those,” he said.           

“Bad night?”           

Greg made a face. “Bad month. Bad six years. Take your pick.”           

“Ah, yeah, of course.” John looked embarrassed. “Sorry, mate.”

Greg thanked the waitress as she brought him a beer, straight from the tap and glorious, and downed a third of it in one go. “Nah. S’alright. What am I supposed to do, sit around crying and watching _A Walk to Remember_ every night?”           

John sputtered with laughter. Greg shrugged mildly. “Had a girlfriend once who watched it whenever she was sad. She could recite the whole damn thing by the time we broke up.” Greg took another long swig of beer. “Guess I don’t have a great history with women, huh?”           

John sighed. “Yeah, well. Romance isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”           

Greg studied him closely for a moment. “Having a bad night yourself?”           

John rolled his eyes. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”           

“Fair enough.”           

They sat in silence for a moment, nursing their drinks. Eventually, John leaned across the table, a very serious expression on his face.           

“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I would like to get absolutely bloody _pissed_ tonight.”           

“You,” said Greg, pointing his finger at John’s face, already feeling the alcohol buzzing through his system, “are a genius.”

 

Four beers later, Greg was leaning back in his chair, feet stretched in front of him, feeling better than he’d felt in ages. 

“This is it,” he said. “This is _it_.”           

John laughed. “What is it? Or—what isthis? Wait.”           

“This is what I _needed_.” Greg said expansively. “To just—let _go_ , you know? God, I’ve been keeping it all in for so fucking long.”           

John nodded emphatically. “Yes. Exactly. Keeping what in?”    

“Everything!” Greg waved an arm. “All the sodding—all the bullshit, you know, do you know how much bullshit Jess spouted every single day? _I’m sorry, I’ll try harder, you’re the one I really love_ , blah blah blah and I just _listened_ to her talk and god I am through with it. From now on I’m going to say whatever the fuck I want.”           

“Damn straight.”     

“And I’m going to _do_ whatever the fuck I want. Do you know I never even touched another woman, the whole time Jess and I were fighting? She was sleeping around right and left, of course, but not me, no, I’m the bloody upright copper…” Greg shook his head. “No more.”           

“Nope.”           

“Ah!” Greg sat up straight, sloshing beer over the top of his glass. “Whoops. Sorry, yeah, here. I saw that therapist!”           

“Oh yeah?” John tried to mop up the spill with a crumpled napkin, looking intrigued. “How’d it go?”           

“Good,” said Greg, nodding fervently. “Yeah. Thanks for the suggestion. You know what she said? She said I should stop trying to control everything. That I should let myself go a little. And just let things happen to me.” He shook his head, amazed. “Can you imagine?”           

“I dunno, mate, sounds like a good idea from here.”           

“Yeah, yeah, I know! I think I’m gonna do it. To hell with control…controlling things. Whatever I want, I’m just gonna go for it. Starting now.”           

“Good man.” John nodded sagely. “Good idea.”           

“And right now,” Greg said, struck with inspiration, “I want a shot.”

 

After several shots, Greg was feeling decidedly less upbeat. It was obvious that John was suffering the same ill effects. He was slumped over the table, picking morosely at a spot in the wood.

“Out with it,” said Greg. He was proudly not quite slurring his words yet. “You look.” He searched for a word. “Miserable. I just split up with my wife. Not you. What’s wrong?”           

John gave him a long, suffering look. “Can’t tell.”           

Greg pointed a finger at John. “Yes, you can. You have a mouth. Therefore, you can speak.” He paused. “So you can tell.” Satisfied, he sat back and waited.           

John licked the inside of his shot glass. “You won’t like it.”           

This didn’t compute. “Nothing to do with me,” Greg responded.           

“Yes it is.”           

“Oh.” Greg thought. “Now you _have_ to tell.”           

John just looked at him for a long moment. Then he giggled.           

“Mycroft Holmes is in love with you.”           

Greg let out a snort of shocked laughter. “Funny. That’s—ha. You’re funny when you’re drunk.”           

John shook his head, still giggling. “Not joking.”           

“Come off it, yes you are.”           

“Nope. Sherlock said.”           

Gradually, the smile slid off Greg’s face. “Nooooo.”           

John just kept laughing.           

“No, no, no, why are you laughing, no, I don’t believe you. John. I don’t—what. What’s funny?” Desperately, Greg tried to see the joke. If he didn’t see the joke, he was going to cry. For real. “What is it?”           

“It’s—” John choked, getting his laughter under control. “It’s all mixed up, see?”           

“What’s mixed up? What is?” He was going to have to leave London, he thought, very calmly. He was going to have to move to Siberia.           

“The brothers. Holmeses. Holmes? Holmeses. If they just—switched. See?” John was eagerly tracing an X on the table now. “They should switch.”           

Greg shook his head. “Nope. Not making sense.” Could Mycroft trace him to Siberia? Did they have CCTV in Siberia? _Oh my god, is he watching us right now?_ Greg thought. Panicked, he swung his head around, searching the corners for cameras.           

“I am Mycroft,” John explained slowly—still, Greg noted from some distant calm place in his mind, not making any sense—“and you are Sherlock.” He drew the X again, more emphatically this time. “We should _switch._ ”           

Understanding hit Greg like a bolt of lightning. “You love Sherlock!” he shouted delightedly, forgetting his panic for a moment.           

John’s eyes lit up, then dimmed as he slouched in his chair. “Yeah.”           

Greg shook his head. “I always thought it was the other way ’round. You know. That Sherlock was the one. Well. Pining after you.”           

John blew out his lips in a raspberry sound. “Idiot.”           

“No, but, John—” Greg’s eyes widened; he was pretty sure John hadn’t thought of this yet—“you’re not gay!”           

“No,” John agreed.           

“Doesn’t help?” Greg asked, crestfallen.           

“No.” John sighed gloomily. “Sorry about Mycroft.”           

“Oh, shit!” Greg said. He’d forgotten for a moment. “Do you think…” He leaned forward, suddenly convinced that Mycroft had planted listening devices somewhere nearby. “Do you think he can have me killed if I won’t go out with him?”           

“Probably,” John answered. 

Greg groaned loudly. “Oh, god. Oh, god, I’m already dead.”           

John giggled again.           

“What?” Greg rounded on him.           

“I just thought—” he held up a hand, laughing too hard to speak. “Your therapist.”           

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “What about her?”           

“What did she say? Don’t control it. Ah. Yeah. Let things happen to you.”           

“So?”           

“Maybe this is it.” John placed a finger straight down on the tabletop. “You should let Mycroft shag you.”           

He exploded into laughter again as Greg growled, kicking the doctor’s legs below the table.

 

It was quiet outside the pub, the air bitter cold, and Greg shivered in his coat, dimly thankful that the alcohol was keeping him warm. He’d made John take the first cab, insisting that however much Sherlock might not be in love with him, he’d still cook Greg alive if he let John die of frostbite. At least, that was what he’d intended to convey through a series of admittedly incoherent grunts.           

Greg balanced on his heels, just to see if he could do it without falling over. He could, but only for a few seconds. He stumbled, and as he righted himself, his gaze landed on a CCTV camera, trained on the sidewalk outside the pub’s door.           

Greg remembered John’s joke about his therapist, about letting things happen to him, and suddenly, he beamed from ear to ear. _Fuck it_ , he thought. _Just fuck it._

Giggling, he fumbled in his coat for a notepad; he found one, slightly crushed, and a pen that was nearly out of ink. Pulling off his glove and holding it between his teeth, Greg scrawled on a blank page. A drunken grin crossing his face, he held it up to the camera.           

HI MYCROFT           

He snorted, and a gust of cold wind blew through his hair, chilling him to the bone and taking the edge off his inebriation. He frowned down at the notebook.           

Slowly, deliberately, he printed something else on the next page, taking care to keep his handwriting as neat as possible. Somehow that seemed very important. Then, feeling dangerously sober all of a sudden, he held the new message up to the camera.           

FANCY A DRINK?           

A taxi honked impatiently, and Greg Lestrade climbed inside.


	5. Sherlock, Doing Science

Sherlock was still awake when John stumbled up the steps of 221B sometime past midnight. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the light, hadn’t even noticed that the room had grown dark until the doctor entered and crashed into a table. Sherlock switched on the lamp, causing John to emit a funny little yelp.           

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he slurred. “Sitting in the dark. Terrifying. Warn me, next—” he hiccupped “—next time.” He mumbled something else too incoherent for the detective to decipher, though Sherlock was almost certain he heard the word “vampire.”           

Sherlock got to his feet and crossed the room rapidly, standing as close to John as he could without touching him. John blinked up at him blearily. _Six beers, three shots_ , Sherlock thought, sniffing John’s breath. _One—no, two pubs, the first one not his regular, much too stodgy, obvious by the way he tried to tuck in his shirt earlier, and there’s a distinct smell of baby powder between his thumb and forefinger—_ Sherlock made a face— _so he shook hands with someone who’s got kids; ah, yes, old friends from uni, probably Stamford included, god, dull, how did John stand it—but ah, he didn’t, of course, he went to a second pub afterwards, one of his regulars this time—Pat’s, yes, that’s where the napkin in his pocket is from. And he wasn’t alone, John wouldn’t do shots alone, so who—_ Sherlock’s eyes widened. Oh, no. Oh, this was very bad.           

“What were you doing with Lestrade?” he demanded.           

This time, the words “bloody wizard” were extremely audible despite the general incomprehensibility of John’s reply. The doctor sat down hard on the table, looking as though he were inclined to slump over and fall asleep right there.           

“Not your business,” he said, pointing his finger at Sherlock’s chest and fighting to remain upright.           

“Did you tell him about Mycroft?” Sherlock fisted the front of John’s T-shirt, bringing his face close to the doctor’s. “ _Did you tell him_?”           

“Maybe,” John replied belligerently.           

Sherlock closed his eyes. Mycroft was going to _murder_ him.     

“John,” Sherlock said, his tone very black, and then blinked. John had shut his eyes, body swaying woozily. The next second, his sandy head had landed on Sherlock’s shoulder. Suddenly, Sherlock had an armful of army doctor, and he gave a sharp intake of breath as his senses exploded.  

_Body temperature and pulse rate slightly lower than normal due to alcohol intake, flushed skin, still weighs less than he should but certainly heavy enough when he’s limp like this, for goodness’ sake, hair softer than it looks and with slight reddish undertones when viewed at this proximity—how did I fail to observe that before?—smells of cheep beer and tequila and his old friends’ expensive cologne and winter air and thick wool jumpers and chases across London—_

Sherlock blinked, disturbed. John’s current catalogue of scents did not in fact include wool jumpers, and it was impossible to _smell_ like chasing criminals. Scowling, Sherlock tried to hoist John to his feet; this business with Mycroft had upset the balance of his mind, clearly, and Sherlock wanted nothing to do with it. But instead of standing upright, the doctor murmured something incomprehensible and shifted his full weight against the detective. Very much despite himself, Sherlock felt something warm and alien flutter in his chest.     

He pushed the sensation away and sighed deeply. It was a good thing he was exceptionally strong, he thought as he half dragged, half-carried John to his bedroom, depositing him bodily on the bed and helping (or, really, forcing) him out of his thick coat. John mumbled vaguely and curled into a tight ball. Sherlock watched him in the dim glow from the streetlamp outside the window, then reached forward impulsively and tugged John’s shoes from his feet. Even Sherlock had to admit that sleeping in shoes was uncomfortable, after all. 

In a sudden spurt of inspiration (god, he really was a genius), Sherlock leapt up and hurried to the bathroom. He rooted around in the medicine cabinet until he unearthed a bottle of paracetamol—it was paracetamol, yes, not something he’d substituted as an experiment? Sherlock licked a pill. Ah, yes. Good. He shook two fresh tablets into his hand and filled John’s toothbrush glass with water.           

“John,” he said as he returned to the bedroom, poking the sleeping doctor with his elbow. “John. Take these.”           

John opened bleary eyes. “Go ’way.”           

“No, no, John,” Sherlock said impatiently. “I’m being helpful. See?” He proffered the paracetamol.           

“Ahhhhh,” John slurred, understanding. He stuck out his tongue. Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head and popped the tablets into John’s mouth. John grabbed the water and managed a long swig before Sherlock had to rescue the glass to prevent it from spilling all over both of them. John lay back and let out a long, contented sigh.           

“Thanks, Sh’lock,” he mumbled. He shut his eyes and waved his hand around in the air. Frowning, Sherlock watched; it seemed as thought John was drawing an X.           

“Too bad it’s switched,” John said, eyes drifting shut.           

“What’s switched?” Sherlock queried, eyes narrowing, but John didn’t answer. He had fallen asleep.           

Sherlock sat back, perching at the foot of John’s bed, and gazed at the doctor as he breathed slowly in and out. Somehow, incredibly, watching John sleep wasn’t boring. There were so many details to catalogue, so many facts to take in: the fabric of John’s pillow fluttered whenever he exhaled, for example; his eyes were moving slightly under his eyelids; his left pinky twitched from time to time. Sherlock wondered if you could correlate the movement of John’s eyeballs with the movement of his finger. He wondered if the rate of John’s breathing would remain constant throughout the night. He bet that no one had ever thought to calculate these things before.           

_And that, Mycroft, is because I am extraordinary_ , he thought, swelling with pride. _This isn’t sentiment, it’s science. And John is the single greatest repository of unplumbed scientific data I have ever encountered._

Satisfied, he settled in for a long night.


	6. Mycroft, with Greg

Mycroft was having a long night, too.  

He had considered, after the debacle at Sherlock’s crime scene that morning, that perhaps he ought to take a break from his surveillance of D.I. Lestrade. He had never slipped up so terribly before, never shown his hand like that, not even with his younger brother, around whom keeping secrets was a near impossibility. It seemed very likely that he had miscalculated somehow, and until he sorted it all out, it was best to put a halt to things entirely.           

But he had done spectacularly well with the evidence from the crime scene that afternoon. Sherlock had been correct, of course; the shrinking room had been Moriarty’s brainchild, and the criminal mastermind had made a couple of subtle errors, leaving clues that gave Mycroft a wealth of information about where he might be found. Ordinarily, that kind of success would have merited an off-the-charts amount of time with the Scotch and the CCTV. And that night, as Mycroft sat in his leather chair, scowling at the blank, dead screen on his desk, he had felt himself relenting, ever so slightly; what could be the harm, after all, in checking up on Lestrade, just for a moment, just to make sure he was all right after the long day’s work?           

It had been easy enough to track him down, based on his phone call with John Watson, and to hack into the pub’s security system, but by the time Mycroft had an image up of the interior of Pat’s, it seemed that the two had already decided to call it a night. Trying to ignore the disappointed twist in his stomach, Mycroft flipped half-heartedly to the CCTV camera outside the building, hoping but doubting that he would catch the two men saying their goodbyes.           

He’d seen the figure on the screen and leaned in, his whole body suddenly electric. That was him, that was Lestrade, extremely drunk and—yes, scribbling something on a notepad. What on earth? And then…           

Mycroft recalled the horror with which he had watched the inspector turn to the camera, looking him, it seemed, straight in the eyes, and holding up a sign that read:           

HI MYCROFT           

_No_ , Mycroft had thought, _oh dear god, no…_

FANCY A DRINK?           

Mycroft had stumbled to his feet, frantically switching off the CCTV, and leaned his head against the cool glass of his one small window. He had stayed in that position, he calculated, for approximately two hours and thirteen minutes. It had taken him that long to get his breathing fully under control. He was back in his leather chair now, quietly devising intricate means with which to torture his brother, and failing utterly to come up with a plan to solve the problem regarding Lestrade.           

The most viable option, of course, was to have the inspector transferred. If he sent him far away from London and never so much as looked at a piece of paper with his name on it again, everything would probably be all right. Mycroft could go back to being the Iceman, safe and sure in his coldness toward the outside world; no one would ever use his attachment to the D.I. against him; and he would regain that mental equilibrium so essential to his position in life. And yet…quite aside from what that would do to Sherlock, and, yes, even aside from the fact that his own mind screamed against the idea with all the vehemence it could muster, Mycroft objected to that solution because it would be wholly, devastatingly unfair to Lestrade. He had worked hard for his position, and being forced to leave London would crush him. 

_Good god,_ Mycroft thought, _I’m putting someone else’s needs in front of my own._

Shocked, horrified, feeling physically ill, Mycroft picked up the phone and ordered a slice of cake.

 

The sugar calmed him down. God, it had been so long since he’d tasted anything that good. He scraped the last of the raspberry filling off the plate and sucked on his fork. Maybe it was four in the morning talking, or maybe it was the chocolate ganache, but it seemed possible that he could resolve this issue less dramatically than he’d initially thought. If he simply talked to the D.I. and convinced him that Sherlock had merely been playing an elaborate prank—part of a decades-old sibling feud, naturally—everything would blow over. Mycroft was quite confident in his ability to control himself in the inspector’s presence as long as he had time to prepare beforehand, and it wasn’t as if the idea of him having feelings for anyone was very credible in the first place.           

He texted Anthea (she would still be here, he knew, finishing the paperwork surrounding the ambassador to Egypt’s unfortunate and extremely secret mental breakdown) and asked her to send a car to pick Lestrade up from New Scotland Yard at eleven-thirty the next morning. Mycroft would have preferred sometime closer to eight, but judging by the inspector’s difficulty staying on his feet outside the pub, he knew he would be recovering from a nasty hangover. _Have a glass of Worcestershire sauce and raw egg prepared for his car ride here,_ he texted as an afterthought. No need for Lestrade to be suffering from a blinding headache while Mycroft talked him out of whatever notions he’d gotten into his head the night before. Belatedly, it occurred to him that the inspector might not even remember his stunt with the notepad and the camera—well, if he’d forgotten it all, Mycroft would just have to pretend he’d brought him there to talk about Sherlock.           

It was very, very bad, Mycroft thought, his stomach sinking, that he did not want Lestrade to have forgotten. Very, very bad indeed.

 

And sure enough, when Lestrade arrived in his office, Mycroft knew immediately that he was in trouble. The man was a force: tall, broad-shouldered, radiating strength and energy even through his hangover. He also looked, quite frankly, utterly terrified. Mycroft was normally pleased to provoke that reaction in people, but at the moment all he wanted to do was assure the inspector that everything was going to be all right.

“Look,” Lestrade began, before Mycroft could even speak, “about last night. I—I’m an idiot, sorry, I was really drunk, and John said something…” He trailed off. “It was just a joke.”           

Mycroft kept his expression impassive, noting with a detached kind of horror that the inspector’s words hurt. They hurt quite a lot.           

“Indeed,” he said coldly. “I’m pleased to hear it.”           

“Right,” Lestrade said, sounding off-kilter somehow.           

“I wouldn’t wish for you to get the wrong impression,” Mycroft said, crossing one leg over the other and smoothing an imaginary crease from his trousers. “Sherlock, at times, can be very immature. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. His idea of a joke can be very tiresome indeed. He disliked having to call me in to his crime scene yesterday and as a result, he decided to retaliate by conveying false information to Dr. Watson, knowing it would eventually be passed on to you. I, of course, have nothing to do with…” 

He trailed off. Lestrade’s expression was entirely unaccountable. The man, for heaven’s sake, was grinning. 

“Bloody hell,” he said. 

Mycroft’s heart was pounding. “I beg your pardon?”           

“I don’t believe you,” Lestrade said, sounding awestruck. He laughed, shaking his salt-and-pepper head. “Bloody hell, I don’t believe a word of it.”           

Mycroft stood frozen in place, feeling the world spin out of his control as the inspector stepped closer. Lestrade took a deep breath, like he was about to plunge into icy water, and then leaned down until he was nose-to-nose with Mycroft.           

Mycroft could feel the man’s breath on his lips. His head whirled, but there was nothing in it; his pulse was racing; he felt almost faint.           

“So what you’re saying is,” Lestrade said very softly, “you _don’t_ want me to come any closer.”           

Mycroft whimpered.           

Lestrade took another deep breath, and closed the distance between them.


	7. Greg, with Mycroft

Mycroft’s lips were burning hot against Greg’s, thin and firm and tasting faintly of raspberries. Their touch sent a jolt of adrenaline through Greg’s body, and he kissed harder, heart pounding, willing Mycroft to kiss back. After a long moment, the pale man buried his hand in Greg’s hair, pulling him closer, until both of them were gasping for air. Mycroft’s kissing was the exact opposite of the man himself: clumsy, frantic, wildly imprecise; Greg would even have said inexpert if the idea hadn’t been ludicrous. God, it was hot.           

Greg pulled Mycroft bodily to his feet, biting down on the man’s lip, just because he wanted to, because John and his therapist had been right—no more keeping things wrapped up, no more controlling everything, no more good cop: Greg was doing what he wanted now, and fuck the consequences. Mycroft gave a thoroughly indecent moan as Greg’s teeth bit into his flesh, and then stumbled backwards, pushing Greg away, staring at him with horror in his eyes.           

“Detective Inspector Lestrade—”           

Greg gave a shout of laughter. “It’s Greg. Seriously.”           

“No, no, it is not.” Mycroft shook his head vehemently. “I cannot—in my position, any degree of—of intimacy, however small, is, is very dangerous—”           

“Oh, yeah?” Greg advanced on the man, licking his lips just to see the shudder it provoked, pushing Mycroft far enough back that he landed heavily in his leather chair again. “I thought you Holmeses liked dangerous.” He trailed his tongue down Mycroft’s jaw, savoring the rasp of invisible stubble. “And I wouldn’t call this ‘degree of intimacy’ exactly _small_ , would you?”           

Mycroft moaned. Greg licked along his jawline again, feeling absolutely fucking _high_. He couldn’t _believe_ he was here, bending over Mycroft Holmes, tasting his skin. God, it was like six years of sexual repression all let loose in one go. There was nothing, _nothing_ he wouldn’t do or say right now, nothing holding him back…He felt Mycroft’s erection jutting against his thigh, hot and hard, and Greg’s body responded eagerly. Why the sodding hell had he ever stopped sleeping with men? He ran his thumb down Mycroft’s Adam’s apple, pressing his fingertip into the hard bone at the base of Mycroft’s throat.           

“This—is not—I musn’t—” Mycroft gasped out.           

Greg stopped abruptly, his lips centimeters from Mycroft’s. “I will stop,” he said evenly, “the moment you ask me directly.”           

Mycroft looked at him helplessly, and said nothing.           

Greg pressed his lips against Mycroft’s again, forcing his tongue inside, as far down Mycroft’s throat as he could. Mycroft squirmed, struggling halfheartedly, one hand on Greg’s chest as if to push him away, the other clutched tight in his hair.           

“God,” Greg laughed, feeling wicked and daring, “I should just tie you to this chair until you stop trying to get away.”           

Mycroft stopped breathing, pupils dilating rapidly, and Greg breathed out.           

“Ohhh,” he said softly. “Oh, that’s interesting.”           

Abruptly, he pulled away from Mycroft. His eyes flickered around the room, searching; they came to rest again on the man in front of him—flushed, disheveled, hair a mess, tie askew. Greg grinned, and reached out to undo the Windsor knot.           

“I think,” he said quietly as he slid the tie from around Mycroft’s neck, “you are very much used to trying to control of everything.” He took Mycroft’s wrists gently in his own and pulled them around the back of the leather chair. Mycroft gave a shuddering breath. “It’s a problem I happen to understand very well. Though I bet you’re generally more successful at it than I am.” He wrapped the tie around Mycroft’s wrists and knotted it, pulling it tight. “I’m trying an experiment right now, in _not_ trying to control myself. An experiment in doing…” he placed his fingertips on Mycroft’s crotch, and the man shook violently, “whatever I want.” He knelt on the floor in front of Mycroft, forcing the man’s legs apart, and, feeling dizzy with daring, ran his tongue down the seam of Mycroft’s trousers.           

“I think you should join me in it.”           

He lunged forward, pressing down hard on Mycroft’s crotch with his mouth, sliding his hands up Mycroft’s shirt and digging his fingernails into the man’s bony sides. Mycroft cried out, throwing his head back, his bound wrists jerking ineffectually against the back of the chair.           

Greg stopped short for a second, heart pounding, suddenly worried. “Too much.”           

Mycroft shook his head, trying, it seemed, to speak. “No,” he rasped out. “Not enough.”           

Greg growled deep in his throat and fumbled with the buttons of Mycroft’s trousers. He slid his fingers between Mycroft’s skin and silken clothes. “Up,” he ordered, and Mycroft lifted his body from the seat, shaking with the effort. Greg pulled down sharply, sliding off trousers and pants together so that they rested around Mycroft’s ankles, effectively binding his feet as well.           

Greg surveyed the half-naked man before him, who was trembling and wide-eyed and willingly at Greg’s mercy, and suddenly, everything became very much about what Mycroft wanted.           

He wrapped his hands around Mycoft’s upper calves and pressed his nails hard into the skin, eliciting a groan that seemed half-pleasure, half-terror. He’d normally have been dismayed to cause the latter emotion in a sexual partner but Mycroft seemed to want it, to need it: Greg bit his inner thigh and Mycroft gasped, wrists writhing, eyes squeezed shut. Greg pushed his face up farther, sucking the tender skin between Mycroft’s legs, feeling Mycroft fighting the urge to thrust forward.           

Watching the man’s face carefully, making sure he wasn’t pushing too far, Greg took Mycroft into his mouth.           

He’d never heard anything quite like the sounds Mycroft was making as Greg moved forward and back, forward and back; Mycroft’s eyes had rolled up into the back of his head, and his legs were shaking violently under Greg’s firm grip. Greg felt, unexpectedly, a rush of tenderness towards the man—how long had it been since Mycroft had allowed this, how long since someone had touched him with more than cold formality? Greg knew what it felt like to go long periods without intimacy; it was so easy to believe that they would last forever.           

He sucked harder, taking Mycroft as deep as he could, determined to show him that he had a choice, that the dry spell could be over, that if he just let go a little bit he could have all the things he thought he had to deny himself… _yes, Mycroft, there it is_ , he thought, as the man shuddered and arched his back and came long and hard into Greg’s mouth. Greg disliked the taste of semen, always had, but he didn’t dream of taking his mouth away, swallowing the bitter liquid as Mycroft spent himself while giving out a cry that seemed ripped from his body, long and animal and _so fucking sad._

Greg slid his mouth gently off of Mycroft and wiped his sleeve across his face. He stood, ignoring his own continued arousal, and placed a hand on Mycroft’s cheek. The man was trembling violently, eyes still closed.           

“Hey,” Greg said. “Mycroft. Hey.” Mycroft opened his eyes a fraction, then shut them again, whimpering. “Are you okay?” Hurriedly, Greg reached back and untied Mycroft’s wrists. They were red and raw. Without thinking, he brought his lips to the tender skin.           

“Greg,” Mycroft rasped. Greg looked up. Mycroft’s face was blank with shock. “What…”           

Greg could recognize an oncoming crash when he saw it; he could see the panic and the realization of what had just happened coming closer in Mycroft’s eyes, and impulsively he tugged at Mycroft’s arms, coaxing the shell-shocked man to the floor, where Greg held him half in his lap. He put his arms around Mycroft, trying to still the violent trembling, and placed his lips against the Mycroft’s temple, feeling, for the first time since he’d walked in, a little afraid.           

“Mycroft,” he began, then hesitated. “How long has it been since…”           

Mycroft looked up at Greg, brown eyes wide, then lowered his lashes. Slowly, he shook his head.           

Greg’s heart contracted. “Are you saying…you’ve _never_ …” Mycroft was silent. “Not even…” He sucked in a breath. Dear god, what had he done? He’d attacked the man, tied his hands behind his back, left long red welts along the skin of his legs…and it had been Mycroft’s first time. Maybe, Greg guessed with a twist of his stomach, maybe he’d never even been kissed.           

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed.           

Mycroft would not look at him. He tucked his legs against his chest, his naked vulnerable legs, and after a long moment, rested his head against Greg’s shoulder and started to cry.

Greg gathered up as much of the man as he could, wishing he could wrap him up in his own body until not an inch of Mycroft was left bare. “No,” he said softly, tears pricking the corners of his own eyes, “on second thought, I’m not sorry at all.”           

Mycroft’s fingers tightened around Greg’s back, and the two men held each other, and let themselves go.


	8. John, with Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, thank you for reading! You're lovely.

As Greg and Mycroft sat together on the floor of Mycroft’s office, John sat alone in his bedroom, freshly showered, forcing himself to stare into the bright sunlight and trying to come to terms with the idea of putting food into his stomach. He was, he had to admit, not nearly as hung over as he ought to be. But, ah, there was a reason for that, wasn’t there?           

He glanced at his bedside table, where a half-full water glass rested. A glass John was sure he hadn’t put there himself. No, if his hazy memories were correct, Sherlock had brought it to him, along with two tablets of paracetamol, which he had placed directly onto John’s tongue. Oh, but, John thought, squeezing his eyes shut, there was more. Yes, he was quite sure of it: when the first rays of dawn had begun to creep in through the windows, he had awoken ever so briefly—awoken to see Sherlock Holmes sitting at the foot of his bed, watching him sleep.           

At the time he’d dismissed it as one of his all-too-frequent Sherlock dreams, and when he’d woken up for good the detective had been gone. But now he thought otherwise. If it had been a dream, Sherlock would have been doing a lot more than just looking.           

John gave a short sigh, squared his shoulders, and went out into the living room.           

The detective was hunched over the table, making notes in a notebook, oblivious to John’s presence. In fact, he didn’t notice John until the doctor snatched the pad of paper from between his fingers, backing quickly out of Sherlock’s reach.           

Sherlock looked up, eyes wide with alarm. “John.”           

“Sherlock.” John ran his eyes down the page, then flipped through, glimpsing charts, graphs, and countless illegible notations.           

“John, what are you—”           

“Sherlock,” John said calmly. “What the hell is this?”           

Sherlock blinked. “An experiment.” His voice was guarded, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he was in trouble yet.           

_Oh, just you wait,_ thought John grimly. “An experiment. Yeah. Okay. When exactly did you conduct this experiment?”           

“Last night,” Sherlock answered warily.           

John nodded. “And is this, by any chance—” he held up a long chart “—the number of times I _breathed each hour_ while I was sleeping?”           

Sherlock swallowed. “Bit not good?”           

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” John exploded. He shook the notebook, beside himself with rage, too angry even to care that he was making his own head hurt by yelling. “You _know_ it isn’t good! Yes, even you, even Sherlock Holmes knows it’s _a bit not good_ to sneak into people’s bedrooms and watch them while they sleep!”           

Sherlock scowled, striding across the room and snatching the notebook back. He flounced dramatically onto the sofa. “I didn’t sneak. I carried you in. And I don’t see the problem. It was purely scientific.”           

“Purely sci—” John took a long, deep breath through his nose. “Explain to me how this is science.”           

“It’s all here, John, you can see it yourself.” Sherlock waved the notebook. “I was quite rigorous in my observations.”           

“Mm. Hah. Okay.” John shut his eyes. “What was it, then? Studying the effects of too much alcohol? Observing the specifics of a hangover in middle-aged white males?”           

Sherlock, surprisingly, did not offer a biting retort. John opened his eyes to see him looking puzzled.           

“No,” he said. “It was just you.”           

John was really, really too hung over for this. “Just—what do you mean, just me? The effects of a hangover on John Watson? Can’t really see the point, Sherlock, I don’t—”           

“Don’t be daft,” Sherlock interrupted, impatient now. “It was _just you_. I don’t care about hangovers, not unless it’s for a case, which it isn’t. If it were I wouldn’t have given you paracetamol, it would skew the results. I was studying _you_.”           

John blinked, feeling suddenly lightheaded. God, he really needed to eat something. He rested his weight on the back of the armchair, trying to calm his breathing. _Get it together, Watson_ , he told himself.           

“Why…were you studying me, Sherlock?”           

Sherlock looked puzzled by this question, too. “Because you’re a fact.”           

John snorted with laughter. This was easily becoming the strangest conversation he’d ever had with his mad flatmate. Well, this week, anyway. “I’m a fact?”           

“Yes.”           

“And…are other people facts too?”           

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be an idiot.”           

John huffed, trying not to lose his temper. “Is that a yes, or a no?”           

Sherlock curled his lip disdainfully. “Other people are not facts. Other people are boring.”           

John considered this, trying to ignore his suddenly elevated heartbeat. “So you wouldn’t watch other people sleep. If it weren’t for a case.”           

Sherlock shook his head emphatically, dark curls bouncing.           

“Ah,” said John, daring himself to say it, “so. I’m…I’m an exception.”           

Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “You’re a _fact_ ,” he snarled. “You went to medical school, John, you’re not an idiot, at least not more than most people, you should know what a fact is. You’re—objectively true.” His eyes lit up momentarily. “You’re a constant.”           

“I’m…a constant,” John said, struggling again, trying to catch whatever meaning lay behind the detective’s convoluted explanations.           

“A constant, yes, like in an equation or an experiment,” Sherlock clarified irritably. “The factor that never changes. Therefore eminently worthy of study, as your effect on the variables surrounding you is always present.”           

“Oh…kay.” John thought, maybe, dimly, that he understood where Sherlock was going with this. Steeling his courage, he sat down next to the detective on the sofa, peering into his gunmetal eyes. “Sherlock—are you saying you don’t want me to leave?”           

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide. “Are you—you’re not—”           

“God, no,” John said quickly. “Sorry. No. No, I’m not thinking of leaving, Sherlock, I only meant…”           

He trailed off, watching as the detective’s face relaxed. What did he mean, exactly?           

“Do you do that a lot?” he asked quietly. “Study me?”           

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded.           

“Like…what? What do you study?”           

Sherlock took a breath. “How often you eat, what you eat, when you eat, when you drink tea versus coffee, how often you cut your hair, the sizes of all your clothes, your shoe size, the likelihood that you’ll be angry with me if I put a head versus other body parts in the refrigerator, the average lifespan of your romantic relationships, the length of time you stay in the shower proportional to the temperature outside, the difference between your forehead crinkling and your mouth going tight when you’re upset…” He stopped short, drawing in a deep breath.           

John stared at him, mouth open. There was a sharp movement in his chest and he could hear something loud and even and rhythmic—ah, yes, his heartbeat. Deafening.           

“And this is…science?” John ventured.           

Sherlock nodded, looking defiant.           

“Okay. Okay.” John squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to be brave, and darted his hand forward, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist. Nonplussed, the detective looked at John’s fingers. Already cursing himself for being an idiot, John slid his thumb slowly up and down Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock’s breath caught. John pressed down on Sherlock’s pulse point, counting.           

“Ninety-eight,” he said. “I’m guessing that’s higher than normal.” Sherlock nodded. “And that…that’s a fact?”           

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was even lower than usual. John swallowed, and brought his lips to Sherlock’s wrist.           

“One hundred and twenty,” he said after a minute, lips brushing skin. He raised his head. “Another fact?”           

Sherlock nodded, seemingly unable to speak.           

“Okay,” John said. His own pulse was crashing through him. Slowly, with every ounce of courage he had, he raised his hand and slid it through Sherlock’s silky hair, cupping the back of his head with his palm. Sherlock’s eyes were glued to him, unmoving and entirely unreadable. _Well, here goes_ , John thought, and kissed him.           

Sherlock let out a startled yelp, but as John started to pull away, mortified, the yelp turned into a growl and Sherlock grabbed his face in his hands, pressing their mouths together urgently, pushing his tongue between John’s lips. Heat rushed through John’s body, spreading to the tips of his toes, Sherlock’s tongue against his potent as an electric shock. They both pulled back, gasping for air.           

“So,” said John, grinning like a lunatic, “so that’s your definition of science?”           

Sherlock looked crestfallen. “I don’t…”           

“That isn’t science, Sherlock,” John said fondly, running a finger along Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone. God, he’d wanted to do that for so long. “Watching me sleep. Memorizing facts about me.” He slid his hand into Sherlock’s hair again. “That’s sentiment.”           

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with alarm. He began to turn away, and John’s stomach plummeted.           

“Don’t you dare, you bloody git,” John hissed. “I don’t care, okay, Sherlock? I don’t care that you’re a Holmes, that you’re supposed to be above it all, I don’t care that you think you’re exceptional. Because that was a bloody brilliant first kiss, and you know it, and you thought I was worth kissing even though I’m just ordinary, and for once in your life stop _thinking_ so much and _let me be in love with you_.”           

Sherlock’s eyes widened. _Oh, shit_ , John thought, heart sinking, _oh shit oh shit I just told him I’m in love with him_. The look of dismay dawning on the detective’s face was his fault; he’d spoken too soon, gone too far…           

“You’re not ordinary.” Sherlock’s voice was incredulous. “How could you think you’re _ordinary_?”           

John blinked. “What?”           

“You _act_ ordinary,” Sherlock said, frowning darkly. “About eighty-six percent of the time, your responses are precisely the same as everybody else’s. It’s baffling. I don’t understand it. But you’re not ordinary, John, you’re—” He struggled.           

“A fact,” John breathed. “Is that what you meant?”           

Sherlock nodded. John placed his hand gently alongside Sherlock’s face and drew him close, kissing him softly and sweetly. Sherlock closed his eyes, a hum sounding in the back of his throat.           

“You know,” John said, staying so close that his lips brushed against Sherlock’s as he spoke, “being in love may be something that ordinary people do—” he kissed Sherlock again, softer even than before “—but that doesn’t mean it isn’t extraordinary.”           

Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John’s neck and inhaled deeply. John laughed, feeling Sherlock’s nose burrowing against his skin.           

“Sherlock,” he said, smiling and shaking his head, “are you _smelling_ me?”           

Sherlock gave a grunt of assent, taking in another long whiff. “You smell of jumpers,” he said, voice muffled in John’s shirt. “You smell of chases.”           

John had no idea what that meant, but it didn’t sound bad. “Come here, you mad git,” he said, lifting Sherlock’s face back up to his. “Come here, and kiss me again.”


End file.
